Beginning
by FFF-AGGOT
Summary: Story moved from DA Frankie the smoker and Bartholomew the hunter -oc X oc-. Matured for strong language and -lighter- sexual themes, aslwell as some gore. Written by technoravercall and shamoosh. The story of a wigger smoker and a midget hunter.
1. Frankies begining

_Edited. Now without the silly mistakes [hopefully]. Also changed the chapter order slightly._

Ten fucking days.  
He'd been trapped in damn room for TEN. FUCKING. DAYS.  
Well, as trapped as someone could be in an unlocked room with about fifteen different exits, all of which if used would lead to the outside world.  
But that was the problem.  
The club had windows.

Had it not then Frankie would have happily ran out of the dark now rather rank scented room (you try living on one room for over a week with no running water then see how good you smell afterwards). But. The room had windows. And through those windows he'd watched as the other club goes ran to their deaths.  
Not all had died at once, no, some had managed to get away, though he'd seen them again a few days later a lot worse for wear and far less human then before, missing body parts or in some cases having grown extra body parts. Some had gotten off easy, ploughed down by gun fire in the chaos, the gunslingers unable to tell friend from foe amongst all the madness. It was a shitty way to die by Frankies standards, though he guessed a bullet to the head would in-fact be a lot less painful then having your intestines ripped out and strewn across the street as he'd done to some fat bitch, or having your leg ripped off then used to bludgeon you to death.

Yeh.

A headshot sounded kinda nice after that.  
He'd of probably have stayed inside the storeroom never having to worry about his preferred method of death though there was one little problem. He'd run out of food. And though he never paid much attention in science class (or any class for that matter) he could remember form the movie the ring you could last the good part of seven days without food before kabam. You're dead.

He'd run over a hundred different battle tactics in his head but when the time came to venture out of the club and find a different place to hide all of his wonderfully well thought out planning went down the drain.  
He stood by the door, light green eyes scanning the road for any signs of…well….anything really. Didn't matter what it was, if it moved then there was no way in hell he was stepping foot out of this building, though after an hour of seeing nothing he eventually had to stop trying to make up excuses and open the door.  
One steps.  
Two steps.  
Three steps.  
Wow things were going better then expected.  
Four step.  
Five steps.  
Six steps.  
Hella' lot better then expected.  
Untill of course Frankie was about ten meters away from the door and suddenly something heavy slammed down onto his back, making him fall forwards and subsequently bite the end of his own tongue off in the process.

The little wigger boy screamed like a girl and desperately tried to bat the THING off him. It was dressed in some scruffy outfit consisting of a blue jumper wrapped in…duct tape? Wow. Now that sounded a little bit familiar. Frankie opened both eyes and caught a glimpse of his attacker, taking in the messy blond hair and short stature.

"Awww hell no-" before he could finish sharp claws grabbed his oversized sweater, beginning to tear it from his body with scarily accurate motions, mimicking those that Frankie himself had used on the same damn boy for the past three years,

He'd never seen how stealing another males clothing could be considered gay. In his eyes it was the ultimate form of humiliation, forcing the little short ass to walk around half dressed all day while Frankie had a locker full of the boys stolen clothes, all trophies of the mini victories he'd won over his self proclaimed bitch.

But now it seemed the tables had turned as the hunter managed to remove Frankies sweater in one sharp motion, pulling it from his body exposing his pale chest and rather girlish physic he'd spent hours at the gym trying to change but to no avail. "Oi! You little fuck, give it back or I'ma shank you in face blood, ya' get me?" the speech impaired boy yelled, his own messed up ridiculous dialect meaning nothing to the hunter as a faint smirk crossed its face, claws flexing and then slamming down onto Frankies stomach, raking over his skin creating deep welts.

Frankie screamed so loud he could have sworn his lungs would explode, if the hunter didn't gouge them out first that way.  
What in reality took seconds seemed like hours as he felt the creatures sharpened nails slowly dig into his skin, ploughing at it and sewing its seeds of infection deep within his body. Frankie felt his breath begin to slow down, and his heart rate quickly follow as the claws dug deeper into him, now exposing his organs to the elements.

He would have lay there and been torn apart if it hadn't of been for four survivors, each armed to the brim with an array of weapons, shooting everything that moved.  
A bullet skimmed past the hunters head making it growl in anger, not seeming to be able to pick up on exactly where the bullet had come from though having a rough idea. In one quick motion it bit down on Frankies shoulder sealing the deal then ran away, the boys jumper still clutched in one of its now blood stained hands.

The survivors assumed he was dead a left, leaving the dieing boy in the street until he was completely alone. He felt himself black out every now and then, having to will himself to stay awake, stay away from the darkness creeping into the corners of his eyes making everything go blurry. Eventually he lost all feeling in his body and assuming this was the end his shakily got to his feet, hands pressing down on his stomach keeping everything on the inside as he made his way back into the club, not wanting to die out here in the street just to be eaten like carrion on the road side. Feasted on by scavengers which had once been human, some of which may have even been his friends.

…

When he awoke four days later he had no recollection of anything that had happened within the past week. Or year. Or ever actually. He sat up and blinked, feeling the side of his face being able to tell that something was different. He blinked again and waited until his eye focused, making up for the missing one, trying to compensate now for the change in depth perception. He reached one greyish skinned hand down to his stomach, feeling over the heal skin that had once been ripped to shreds, now only littered by several claw shaped scars. He went to raise the other hand to do the same, to check his body was fine and free from open sours, though he noticed that his right arm was considerably heavier then his left, probably due to the large amount of greyish tumour like bulges all gathered around his forearm, stopping just above his hand. As a human he would have found this sick, and would have most likely vomited into the nearest circular object, though now his brain didn't seem to register this as being physically unattractive, he only saw it as annoyance, the tumours causing his body to feal off balanced.

He got to his feet, now being able to tell it was only on his right side that the tumours seemed to have grown, having a slightly awkward stance to make up for the weight throwing him off balance. Another rather interesting change that though he couldn't remember, he could have sworn hadn't always been there, were the three large slimy appendages protruding from his body. One seemed to be coming from a slit on the beck of his neck, another amoungst the tumours on his shoulder, and the last one from his own mouth, judging from the feel of it something that reached all the way down into his stomach and probably further.  
He gave the appendage and experimental twitch though from instinct he seemed to know what to do with it, needing little time to work out how to control all three and get used to his new body.

He stood there in silence for a few minutes, waiting for his quickly festering brain to come up with something to do.  
Eat.  
Kill.  
Fuck.  
Any basic primal desires were instantly thrown forwards in suggestion with little or no order, his body simply screaming at him to do SOMETHING to satisfy it. He touched his left shoulder feeling a slight pinprick of pain where the hunters teeth had sunk into his skin then he tilted his head to the side a fraction, remembering small flashes of information, sights and scents. With a low growl he walked out of the club, lounge tongue instantly shooting out from his open jaw and quickly strangling a common infected that had come to close, sending a warning to the others lurking about to keep there distance as he made his way along the street, one track mind now fixed on finding the hunter.  
**His** hunter.


	2. Bartholomew's Change

_Edited. Now without the silly mistakes [hopefully]. Also changed the chapter order slightly._

"Now the fucker can't get it off."

Bartholomew finished with his task of carefully, if not lopsidedly, rolling duct tape over his arms, torso and legs. He sat back and looked into the full length mirror in front of him. The orange tape contrasted horribly with his blue sweater and green jeans, but it didn't matter, it's all the clothes he had left now.

"Stupid, fucking, dick, ass."

Grumbling darkly to himself, he ignored his mothers call from downstairs that she was leaving, that she loves him, and turned, rooting around for his school bag. "Yeah, yeah, and you'll love me when I get home too, big deal."

This kind of pain was intense.

Like nothing he'd ever experienced, not ever when he broke his arm in two places and fractured a rib because the guy who sacked him had a hundred pounds on him, easy.

No, this was worse. It was beyond the people, _things_, clawing and biting and tearing into him, easily drawing blood from his soft belly and face –it was weird how they ignored the fabric completely once his hood fell off, and sweater rode up– the only exposed skin on him.

No, it was also the intense burning that sang in his veins from the very first bite on his ear. He felt like he was on fire and all he could do is scream, and scream. Hoping somebody, anybody, would hear him and help him.

"What in Gods green Earth?"

Bartholomew could barely get his head to turn with the two things on him, with the pain that was screaming white hot, but he did and he saw a pair of feet not twenty feet away, next to his felled backpack. With a jerk, he freed a hand from under one of his attackers shins, extending it towards whoever it was, grinning like it didn't hurt at all. "H-help?"

He was fading now, and it felt like his stomach had been turned inside-out, which it probably had, but he was still alive, he was still breathing, for now.

His eyes slid closed, just for a second, just to rest, and by time he reopened them he was staring at an unfamiliar ceiling, his body screaming at him, and an elderly woman he didn't recognize standing by at his side.

She noticed he was awake almost immediately and practically assaulted him with a flashlight. "How are you feeling?" She didn't let him answer. "Sonny, you're lucky I was walking that way, or else you would be dead. It's a shame that those two got you like that. Tore you up real good."

Smoothing a wrinkle on his bedspread, she went on. "Somehow left your clothes intact, which was nice, I guess. I left them on you, rest assured. But I still can't understand why any person would-" She cut off, hesitating.

"Attack, maul, try to eat?" Bartholomew's voice cracked horribly and was rough to the ears. He wanted water badly. Where was his bag? He always brought water with him in his bag; he always needed it after his morning 3 mile run to school.

A bottle was pressed into his hand and his grabbed it the best he could, trying to pushing himself into a sitting position, it wasn't working. "Here you go, sonny." With a reassuring hand on his back, she helped him into a more upright position. "Now don't move too much, I stitched you up, but I ain't been a nurse in many years, so you'll have to stay still for a day or two."

A day or two?

_A day or two? _

He didn't answer right away, chugging down his water faster than he should seemed more important. But by time he was ready to talk, she was already prattling on again. "I have to get home, my mom will be worried." Bartholomew managed a smile, but was starting to feel wary about the woman. "Plus, what's the chances on me running into those guys again?"

"Sonny." She spoke softly, setting a hand below his knee atop the blanket. "The news has been talking all day about an Infection that is going 'round rampant. I don't think it's good for you to go anywhere." She looked apologetic, and sincere, but Bartholomew wasn't buying it, he had been kidnapped. It was some elaborate plot, he just knew it. "It seems the Infection makes people go crazy much like the two who attacked you, and they, well, attack other people. And if you're bitten, you turn into one as well."

Weird ass elaborate plot.

He glanced to around, while chugging back more water, trying to find a way to escape.

He had to get home, _had to. _

The door was open to his right, and she was standing to his left, so unless more of her goons were waiting for an injured boy to make a break for it, he was pretty assured with his ability to outrun an old hag. He doubted she was as in shape as he, after all.

But, just to be on the safe side- Bartholomew pushed the covers away, showing his bloodied sweater, still covered in duct tape. Wow, just by the blood he was covered in, maybe he should just let her have him. He might be too injured to run away.

He pulled his sweater up, showing his stomach. It was a maze of cris-crossing stitches and oozing wounds. Ignoring the woman's prattle, he glanced over to see she was gathering bandages. Okay, he'd let her do that for him too.

She was very precise on placing, what was basically a giant piece of gauze on him, that covered his wounds, before using ace bandaging, which Bartholomew frowned at, thinking about overheating and the sweat and blood and soon pus that would congeal more easily because of the damn skin coloured bandages, to wrap around his lower torso. It was tight, but not too tight, and he found himself believing that she had been a nurse, as if the stitches didn't show that.

Then, when she turned her back to wash her hands off, Bartholomew grabbed his back, shoving the bottle that was now mostly empty back inside, and ran for it, shouting a grateful "Thank you!" behind him. He made it out the first door and after a slight glance he saw the front door to the right. She was yelling behind him, her feet skittering over the floor as she tried to follow behind, trying to get him to stop, it wasn't safe.

Wrenching the big oak door before him, open he stopped dead in his tracks.

There were at least two dozen people wandering the streets aimlessly, all with the same blank look o their face as the two that had attacked him. Cars were parked haphazardly on the sidewalks and half wrapped around trees, door and windows broken, or simply left open for no reason.

But even from his spot he could see a few scared faces peeking out from behind curtains of a few houses that looked relatively untouched. _Good_, there are still some sane people.

"Wait!" That brought him back to the woman limping towards him; he shot her a smile before stepping out and slamming the door.

Bad move.

Many heads turned towards him and there was an eerie moment of stillness before one of them gave a cry and they all started running for him.

Fuck.

He slipped his other arm through his backpack strap, grabbed the loss ends and tightened them so it wouldn't all off. Then, he took off, the pain from his stomach was a sharp reminder of what these things would do, given the chance, so he forced himself to run faster, run through the pain, run away from a safe place.

Bartholomew made it home sometime later, much after night had descended and he had to find better ways to dodge the ever increasing horde of creatures that popped out of every place imaginable at him.

He stared up at the house, the image seeming to flicker before his eyes. This was his house right? Or was it the next one?

Something hit him from the side, knocking him to the ground. One of the things was attacking him, the horde long since left behind, but it was like the others; dead eyes, blood smeared face, grubby, clawed hands.

This was getting irritating. With a growl of his own, he kicked out; hit the thing in the chest and knocking it back. Looking down he noticed a tire iron next to the car a few feet away. He jumped for it, and swung it around behind him, catching the creature, which had come in for another attack, on the side of the face.

It fell again, this time with a sickening crunch, and did not get back up.

Bartholomew dropped the iron, but stayed crouched, for some reason it felt right, and crawled toward the house again. His had to be his house, if he had a house.

Going to the door, he stood back up and turned the knob, walking inside. "M-Mom?" He looked around, he could hear the television on someplace and the microwave was running. "Dad?" He felt cold, and he hurt, and all he wanted was for his mother to hold him in her arms and tell him everything was going to be okay. Even if it was a lie.

His skin was itching now, on the left side of his face, where one of hose first stupid fucking things had bit him.

Closing the door behind him, he ventured towards the kitchen, and saw that there were bottled water lined up on the counter, no doubt for him when he returned from school. He felt a pang of regret for not answering his mother this morning, but pushed it away and took his bag off. He dumped the contents out and replaced it with the water before putting the bag back on, you never know, right?

As he was doing so, he noticed his nails, if he could call them that anymore, were longer, sharper. He tried not to dwell on the blood under one of the nails and looked away.

He heard voices upstairs and immediately got excited, that had to be them. He ran for the stairs, not bothered by the fact that he couldn't even feel his injuries anymore, but he didn't remember that vase being there before. Or a stairwell for that matter.

Bartholomew stopped halfway up the stairs, swaying dangerously, his vision blacking out for a minute before returning. He looked around and suddenly nothing was look familiar, or if they did one second, the next they were foreign and it frightened him. "MOM!" He screeched, his voice going to a pitch and volume he'd never experienced before.

He opened his mouth to scream again, when he had a terrifying thought. _What if I don't have parents? _ He shook his head violently and ran up the stairs. "_MOM! _" He saw a light on under a doorway and ran for it.

He wretched the door open and came face-to-face with the barrel of a gun. "Dad?" His voice was barely a whisper as he backed away. Bartholomew looked at the wielder of the firearm and it sparked some recognition, if faint. Behind the man was a slight brunette women. She was sobbing against her husband. He smiled, "M-mom."

Reaching out got his a warning shot near his feet. He jumped up and when he landed he was on his hands and the tips of his toes again, only this time he was growling at people that he knew he loved, he just didn't know why. "Why?"

He man was giving him a hard look, but tears were streaming down his face. "You're not my son." Bartholomew's hackles rose at this and he gave a fierce cry.

_That's not true. I am. .IAM. _

"Not anymore." The next shot would have hit him square in the forehead if he hadn't of jumped back. "Get out!" Another shot that he dodged. "I don't want to do this!" They were backing him towards a window, but he didn't take the escape route. The people, _juicytenderflesh_, in front of him looked like easy prey now. His mind blank of everything but what he needed.

Kill.  
Eat.  
Mate.

Two of those could be knocked out real easily.

He grinned wickedly, relishing in the sudden terror to descend on the humans before him, how they turned to run and he let them for a moment, just a moment, before running a few paces and pouncing on the bigger ones back, easily tearing through the shirt and into the giving flesh below.

Two screams resounded through-out the house.

He could get used to this.

Days passed in a blur, as a sudden madness of sorts overtook him. All he could see was red, all he could feel was the delicious pain he cause, all he could hear was the screams that followed him everywhere he went.

It was a good sort of madness, a madness that kept him alive while his mind tried to sort out the damage in his brain. He couldn't remember anything, not even his own name, or if he had any loved ones, not that it matters, or if he'd ever been any different than he is now. Made it seems fine for what had once been festering wounds on his stomach to be fine the next day when he woke, only heavy scarring remaining.

That was, of course, until he started having the dreams during his rare resting periods. Dreams of tearing and clawing and killingkilling_killing_.

After the first night, he woke up, his own fingers clawing at his eyes. He calmed and used his claws to dig out chunks of white flesh, cutting the veins that once connected the spheres to his sight. But now, he was oddly okay with the sudden lack of sight.

The only thing he liked seeing was the bodies he mutilated anyways, not the rest of the destruction. The days that passed, weren't the best, he continued to have nightmares, and he kept missing targets when pouncing, but he was getting better at using smells to determine if something was like him, or his next meal.

And his hearing could help determine location, just by them stepping of gravel. But, he hadn't had a successful kill in nearly a week and he was getting hungry, he refused to be like the lowly others who ate scraps from others. That's when he heard a door below his rooftop perch open.

He crouched, pressing his chest to the cool tin. He sniffed, confirming that it was human, if a smelly one, and scared. So deliciously, scared. He grinned and waiting, listening for the optimum time to leap. Just a few more steps now, the human was getting more confident now.

Now.

He landed squarely on the human's back, male he can tell now by the spicier scent. The human blind panicked beneath him, screaming, for a moment, wiggling around so that he was perched on the others lap. He was getting yelled at, but he didn't care. Somehow the scent seemed familiar, and it made him all the more eager for this.

Clothe blocked him from his target, but it was easy enough to remove, just a quick swipe, all the while grinning. He relished a moment more in the yells, the squirming, before flexing his fingers and plunging them forward, digging into the soft tissue easily and tearing it away.

_The best kind of revenge, really. _

Unsure of where that thought came from, he continued with his task, the scream almost as filling as the flesh would be.

A loud bang cut him off and he jerked to the right, sniffing, his hands never stopping in their motions, he growled lowly, head jerked back and forth. He made a quick decision, almost instinctual, and leaned down sinking his teeth into the exposed skin of the humans neck.

Infecting him. Killing him. _Marking him. _

As he leapt away, his hand brushed fabric, and he grabbed the torn sweater in one bloodied fist before racing away, wondering if the human would come find him when he could. When he was Infected.

He hoped so.


	3. Chapter Two

_Edited. Now without the silly mistakes [hopefully]. Also changed the chapter order slightly._

Killeatfuck.  
Killeatfuck.  
Killeatfuck.

God damn he wished his brain would shut up for five freaking minutes.  
It was the same thing over and over again, nothing else, just those three little words running over his blackened brain making him go insane.

Well.

You know…more insane.

Since waking up he'd killed seven people in the space of two hours, all be it five of those people weren't really 'people' anymore but still. That wasn't exactly what a sane person would do now was it? No. The kid was off in the deep end lacking in the rubber armband department.

But he didn't mind.

It was annoying sure, but hell it just felt right. The constant buzzing in his ears hurt like a bitch but getting to crush someone's head beneath his fist, now that gave the boy a rush no drink or girl ever could.

He brought one blood soaked hand to his mouth and let his tongue unravel (he'd learnt how to retract it so it wasn't constantly hanging out of his mouth making him trip and stumble every five seconds) lapping up some of the crimson liquid almost purring at the taste.  
Yes.  
This was definitely right.  
But still something was a little off…..he'd been doing something. Or he was meant to do something maybe? Frankie paused in the middle of the street, for the first time since he'd changed he had to put his brain to proper use, not just running of instincts like he had been doing. He knew he had to find someone, but who, that was the problem. Faces of those he'd killed ran through his brain but he quickly brushed them aside. They were dead. He didn't have time for dead people. If they didn't scream or move then they didn't interest him. Two faces flickerd in his brain for a split second but they were gone in an instant. His brain destroying the memory of the man and the woman who had housed him since birth, both of whom had been some of the first to die once the infection had started out. He didn't care about them anymore and in all honesty it was probably a good thing he couldn't remember them.

To upsetting.

He scratched his stomach while thinking then felt the scars on him tummy, brain now working in over drive as his eye fixed on the off coloured markings.  
Now then.  
They seemed a little more familiar.  
A small smile spread over his face as he finally remembered what he'd been doing, or had been going to do at any rate.  
The hunter.  
The one who bit him.  
The one who had his jumper.  
_The one who he teasedhurtmadefunof_

Oh. Well that was odd.  
Where had that come from? Frankie scratched the back of his neck feeling the slit where his other tongue came out of and shrugged, clicking his shoulders with a sickening popping sound. It didn't matter. He'd remembered now. He wanted to find the hunter. Hunter. Little tiny hunter. Heh, so small for one fo his kind, not that Frankie had seen many but still, his was was probably a pigmy or something.  
Or a midget.  
Or a freak.  
Freakier then the others anyway.

It took him two whole days to find the hunters scent again. He'd found other hunters. And a witch. Even a tank (now that had hurt. But none of them had been ** HIS** hunter. Not the one he wanted. Lusted. Craved for.)  
Safe to say through the past two days only two of his primal instincts had been satisfied. Yet though he could probably over power one of the common infected he didn't want one of them. No. They were annoying and loud and smelled like human. He wanted the person who had ripped out his intestines instead. The one who had gouged out his own cute little eyes with his bare hands and not even cared. That's who he wanted.

The others could rot and let maggots take their virginity for all he cared.

It was odd though. When he slept (yes he had to sleep) he would often wake up to the scent of the hunter around him. As if he'd been close. In the same room even. Right beside him. Waiting and watching him as he dreamt of blood and gore and screams. It made him feel oddly happy. Or some form of emotion. He couldn't pin point what one, he was kinda beyond being able to tell how he felt now unless it was pain hunger or angry. But he felt something and that something was what kept him going, rummaging around through the broken city, killing anything that got to close and running when HE got to close to something he shouldn't.  
(For something so small and dainty those witch's sure did hurt like a bitch.)

As a human he'd always had a very one track mind, and even now as something less then human he'd still retrained that personality trait which was serving him well. Every action he made was done with the simple desire to find the hunter. Touch him. Taste him. Bite him. Kill him. Fuck him.  
Anything really, as long as he found him it didn't matter.

As he walked he let his mind wonder, small scenes often playing out in the back of his brain that held no meaning to him and he simply chose not to pay attention to them, letting them fester away in the back out of sight.

_The class halls were empty, everyone had left apart from a few over worked teachers and the cleaners, all of which were currently in the staff room watching the football on the shitty black and white tv the school refused to replace.  
Well, the halls were /almost/ empty, save for two students near the science labs.  
"For fucks sake! Leave me alone" Bartholomew yelled, his faint accent coming through as he shoved his hands against Frankie's stomach making the taller boy smirk and slam his fist into the shorters nose, watching in sick pleasure as he stumbled back clutching his now bleeding face, curses coming out through ragged breathing. "N' what you gonna' do about it if I don't? You can't do shit, fucking midget. Can't even reach my fucking shoulders" Frankie sneered, pushing the boy back against the wall pinning his arms above his head. Trapping him there. Bartholomew fell silent, eyes fixed on the floor as he grit his teeth. He'd been through this routine hundreds of times before and while it pained him to keep silent he knew it was for the better. When Frankie saw the fight had gone from the boys eyes he frowned, ramming his knee sharply between the boys legs making his yelp and then vomit up into his mouth, not being able to him himself. Frankie jumped backwards, half pissed and half amused as he watched the boy slump forwards onto his knee's holding his groin between his hands trying to get the pain to fade. "Hehe, faggot, Gonna rub one out over me right now? Fucking queer. Come on, say it. Say you're a fucking queer" the older boy defiantly found it fun to make Bartholomew's life a living hell. There was no denying that. "Oi!" he knelt down and slapped the boys cheeks making sure he didn't get any vomit of them then sharply punched the kid in the gut in warning. "I said. Say. YOU'RE. A. FUCKING. LITTLE. QUEER" he screamed, voice escalating as Bartholomew continued to ignore him._

_The boy shuddered, body heaving in pain as he felt tears brim to his eyes but refused to let them fall, wishing he hadn't left his one and only remaining jacket in the science rooms. He muttered something beneath his breath but obviously it wasn't enough as Frankie slapped him again making his already red burn even more.  
"I s-said….You're a fucking queer."  
The look that passed over the ghetto wannabe's face was definitely worth the beating he knew he'd damn well receive but hell, he couldn't help himself. It was to good to pass up._

_Fists beat down against the back of his head making him curl up into a ball and hold onto his legs tightly, trying to block everything out, letting a moan pass by bleeding lips as Frankies foot slammed into the base of his spine sharply sending jolts of pain all the way up his back. He was sure he;d break something but someone must have been looking out for him as one of the cleaners, bored from the football game now (his home team had lost) walked up the stairwell and saw the scene going on before him. Frankie paused mid kick and then cursed before he grabbed the bloodied boys jumper by the end and pulled, yanking it over his head just as the cleaner got to them. He dodged the mans grip and then ran, smiling as he herd the man yell after him but do little else, obviously to concerned with the boy on the floor to try and chase after him._

_Once back at his apartment Frankie opened his wardrobe and chucked the jumper inside along with the pile of clothing he'd already stolen from the younger boy, a considerably large pile in fact built up over years of misguided possessiveness. Frankie hated the kid. He didn't know why but hell, he knew beating the shit out of him made him happy and there was no way in hell he intended to stop.  
Ever_

Frankie scrambled over broken rubble that cut his hands and made the scruffy jeans he wore even scruffier as eh jumped down onto the other side, eye glancing over to the right as he watched a burning building slowly reduce to cinders as the fire escape bolted onto the side became to much of a burden and fell away, brining with it half of the left wall making the whole thing collapse in on itself.  
Frankie coughed as the dust blew towards him and then he coughed some more, only now seeing the greenish smoke appear around him at the action. He wasn't that surprised though, He could feel his lungs rotting away inside his body, changing his carbon to something far more toxic. The only problem now was that with this final change to his body it meant he wouldn't be able to hide as well. But, he was quick, and moderately stealthy so it didn't seem like it would cause him that much of a problem. That was until the smog got so thick he couldn't see his own hands in front of his face, or anything for that matter.

He kept on walking though, his ears still being functional making sure he stayed clear of the crackling fire. His foot hit something soft and he looked down, unsure why he did since he couldn't see for shit but still.  
It smelt like his hunter.  
He picked up the wallet between his fingers, bringing it close enough to see through the fog still being pumped out by his rancid lungs, and opened up, ignoring as a few coins of spare change fell the floor rolling away. He looked at the school student card in the clear part of the wallet and just stared, eye looking over the boys blond hair and boyish features, a rather pissed off expression on his face.  
"B….batho….Bartholomew?" he muttered, finding it a little hard to talk with a twenty foot tongue in his mouth. Also finding it a little hard to read but managing. He'd gone back to primal instinct but hell, it wasn't like he'd become retarded or something. Doing maths was out of the question but he could still read seeing as it was helpful. Helped him navigate around to find pray in different areas. Once again he wasn't sure why his body insisted he do something but he folded the wallet back up and clicked open one of the record pockets on his jeans, pushing the wallet in along side the shattered vintage disk and then doing the pocket back up to keep it safe.  
It belonged to his hunters and for some strange reason that made him want to have it, it already being settled in his brain that if anyone attempted to take the wallet from him then they would be killed in a second.

He continued his trip through the city, passed the hospital that now housed patients with a virus that couldn't be fixed with any medication know to mankind. Past the gym where for some strange reason a tank could be seen behind the glass front, almost seeming to be reading the posters along the wall before smashing through said wall with a loud roar.

Eventually Frankie reached the city park, and at last, after two days of searching he found his hunter, currently being pinned between a tree and a witch. On the brink of having his face ripped off.


	4. Chapter Three

_Edited. Now without the silly mistakes [hopefully]. Also changed the chapter order slightly._

As a human Frankie had been overly possessive of anything he dubbed as 'his', which not surprisingly was a lot of things. His clothes, car, locker and even the one meter radius around him was his and if anyone even attempted to touch/come into it then they'd come face to face with his fist.  
Unless they were hot chicks.  
He'd make an exception then.

The rather childish act of claiming things also applied to people as well. Bartholomew was his, in a sense anyway. He made the kids life a living hell and hated his guts but still, only he was allowed to do that. If he saw anyone else do it then there would be hell to pay.

_ Frankie walked behind the cafeteria, lighter in one hand and a cig hanging out of the corner of his mouth as he pulled up his baggy jeans with his free hand a few inches, still not enough to hide his boxers. But hay, it was fashion.  
If you were a colour blind hobo anyway._

_He lit the cig and took a quick drag, coughing into his hand a few times still not fully used to the burning taste which no matter how hard he tried he couldn't get himself to stop. Not that he wanted to try. Nyah, this made him 'cool' according to his peers. And Frankie was one cool guy.  
Pfh  
Yeh  
Right  
Ignorance is bliss after all._

_As he past the bike shed he herd the sounds of people talking though he didn't pay them much attention, probably some angst emo fuckers gaying it up or something. Only when he heard a certain voice did he stop and turn, letting the cigarette fall from his fingers onto the floor and the very same hand ball up into a tight fist.  
Now Frankie wasn't the strongest of guys no matter how much he liked to pretend, but he was pretty tall and could take a few punches, not to mention he had fucking crazy person stamina and would beat the person into submission and then a little more just for shits and gigs._

_He slowly made his way behind the other side of the building, pausing on the corner then peering around, feeling his blood begin to boil at the sight before him._

_There, laying on the floor was HIS bitch. Bleeding from a cut above his eye and one of his upper arm, probably from the shattered glass littering the floor. From the looks of things he'd interrupted some drunk fucks having a little party and they'd decide to play whack a mole with his head.  
Classy.  
Frankie would have to try it out sometime but not now, no, now was the time to show those bastards what was his and teach them a lesson._

_He looked around for a few seconds then spotted some crates used to package up the boxed lunches they served in this shit hole every Thursdays, though the crate he currently had his eyes on had been cracked in several places, being reduced to nothing more then a few planks of splintered wood with nails jutting out in different directions._

_Perfect for bashing people around the head with._

_The bastards didn't know what hit them. One moment they were laying into Bartholomew with punches and kicks and the next second one guy was out cold and the other had a nail embedded in his right shoulder while the last remaining drunkard was currently getting a face full of wood as Frankie slammed it into his head, breaking his nose and splitting his lip._

_The fight lasted the worse part of eighty seconds before the two ran away, yelling curses to Frankie as they tride not to trip over their own feet.  
The other boy stayed on the floor, not being able to do much seeing as he was still out cold, though when Frankie kicked him in the ribs he made an off groaning sound much to the tall boys amusement._

_Now that the immediate threat had gone he paid attention to Bartholomew, who by now had gotten to his feet and was trying to work out what the fuck had just happened, and more importantly WHY it had happened._

_"…..you…..saved me?" he asked, none to sure about it in all honesty. It just didn't seem real. Maybe his head had gotten to messed up and he was simply seeing things. Or maybe he was dead. Either one would make more sense then Frankie, the guy who had made his life a living hell for the past X amount of years, having saved him.  
Said saviour chucked the bloody plank of wood away from him then smirked, folding his arms over his chest and taking a step closer. "heh, guess I did. Gonna give me a rewards or just stand there like a pussy all day?" he asked, tilting his head to the side and frowning as he saw the large bruise forming on the boys cheek. "A reward? What the hell! I didn't ASK you to save me yer bastard" Bartholomew yelled, waving his arms about ignoring the pain that flared up his right side. "Yeh you're right you didn't but life's a bitch that way now pay up or I'll take a different form of reward faggot" Frankie didn't realize how….odd that sounded and probably never would even if it was spelled out for him. He never was the brightest crayon in the light bulb box after all. Though unlike Frankie Bartholomew did see the oddity in the statement and hurriedly looked around for his wallet, realizing that not only had the three boys stolen his dignity but also the damn thing.  
Wonderful.  
Just wonderful.  
"I don't have anything to pay you with, just get lost, I need to get to the nurse" Bartholomew said with a sigh, using the usual tactic of giving up the fight which normally made Frankie grow tired of the little charade and leave him alone quicker. Though today it seemed it wasn't working.  
"You ain't got nothing? Heh, lier" In a second he had the boy pinned the the wall, hand against Bartholomew's skin slipping under his top making the short boy shudder and kick out, getting Frankie in the shins which earned him a quick head butt making him see stars. "You never learn do you?" He said almost sounding amused as he grabbed the side of Bartholomew's t-shirt, sliding it up over the boys arms then rolling it up into a ball, holding it between both hands smugly.  
"There, see, now were even midget" Frankie smiled and petting a now shivering Bartholomew on the head mockingly before turning away, pleased that not only had he'd beaten the shit out of the people who had DARED touch his bitch, but also had another item of clothing to add to his ever growing pile of the other boys clothing _

Something inside the smoker clicked as he watched the witches claws dig into **his** hunters stomach making the infected howl in pain and unsuccessfully try and scratch the bitches eyes out as she continued her rabid attack. Batholomew had been making his way through the park when he'd jumped down from a ledge and startled the little whore who'd been crying softly behind a vending machine of all places.  
Witches were weird fuckers.  
Bawwing because they didn't like death but then slaughtering everything that crossed their paths.  
Some logic that was.  
But, Frankie didn't have time to think about the mind set of the bikini clad young women as he let out a animalistic growl and ran forwards, raising his right tumour ridden arm above his head then slamming it down sharply onto the side of the bitches neck, successfully startling her and making her let go of Bartholomew who sat slumped against the tree, hissing and clutching at his heavily bleeding stomach as he watched the two infected battle it out.

The witch turned sharply, claws slashing out catching Frankie across the arm creating deep welts as he slammed it down upon her again, feeling something crack but then regretting the action as the witch grabbed onto his arm and yanked him forward, pulling them flush against each other.  
Some ware at the back of his brain he instinctively knew to look down, getting a nice look at some witchy bitchy cleavage before he was sharply pushed back and pounced upon, feeling pain flare up on his left side as the witch dug three fingers into his side, howling above him like some deranged widow.  
Frankie curled up onto his side then rolled onto his back, screaming as the witch bit down on the back of his neck making him spazzem as her teeth brushed against his spinal chord sending of random impulses throughout his body. He grit he teeth hard enough to shatter them then suddenly smirked, a rather sick smile spreading over the smokers face as he felt the witch above him seem to be caught off guard for a moment.  
In a split second he had her hands entangled with his tongue while she thrashed above him, the tongue protruding from his neck now half way down her throat.  
Chocking her.  
Killing her.  
_makeingoutwithherlolwtf_

Eventually the bitch fell still and Frankie got to his feet, feeling the wound on his back then slamming his arm down on the witches head crushing it to pieces sending bits of god knows what spraying out covering him in witchy bitchy no longer twitchy goo.

This defiantly felt right.

Even though she was dead Frankie adored overkill, so he didn't stop smashing and bashing until her corpse was unrecognisable to the human, or infected, eye. Just a big ol' pile of guts and mush.

Just the way Frankie liked it.

3

He brought his hand to his mouth and licked some up with one tongue, grimacing at the taste and wiping his hand on his jean, fingers brushing over the lump in is pocket making him remember the hunter, who by now was on his feet with something in his hands.

The two looked at each other, well….Frankie looked anyway. Bartholomew just stood there with his head in the correct direction. It was one of those moments where time seemed to stand still, neither of them did anything, both waiting for the other to make the other move, waiting for their rotting lumps of brain matter to come up with an actions to act upon while they simply stood there in silence.

Frankie was the first to make the move. Always had been and probably always would.  
He ran forwards, arms out stretched as he grabbed Bartholomew by the shoulders, digging his fingers into the shorter infected shoulders, screaming at him at the top of his lungs. It was a primal action with little or no meaning behind, simply a way of intimidation, trying to get Bartholomew to submit to him but instead getting a face full of hunter claw. He snarled and stepped back, batting away the hunters hands and then growling, snaking his tongue out along the floor then clamping it down around Bartholomew's legs making the younger boy hiss and fall forwards onto his hand, scrambling around on all fours and clawing at the appendage trying to get legs free before Frankie pounced him, wrapping his arms around the others waist pinning his arms to his side.

They both sat there, in a rather odd hug pose, almost seeming…docile.

Until of-coarse Bartholomew turned his head and bit down on Frankie's shoulder in exactly the same place he'd bit him, marked him, infected him before sending Frankie into a wild fit of rage, slamming his hand down on the back of Bartholomew's head and straddling his back, tongue wrapping around the boys neck as he attempted to strangle him.

While the two battled it out they never once noticed themselves being watched by a girl with light brown hair dressed in what had once been a nice little outfit but had since been reduced to a blood stained scratty mess. She'd been making her way to the docks (there had been a radio transmission stating that the army had set up some tankers which would take any uninfected survivors away from the madness) when she'd heard Frankie scream. It wasn't an uncommon mistake but due to the fact Frankie's infection was far more noticeable then Bartholomew's she assumed the shorter boy was a human, about to be killed by some horrible creature and being the nice little lesbian she was she wanted to help the poor 'human' boy. She pulled her back pack from over one shoulder, feeling the weight of the bricks inside make her arms hurt for a few moments before she swung up around her head and let it fly, hitting Frankie in the side of the face making him twitch and unravel his tongue from Bartholomew's reddened neck. She managed to run a few hundred feet before Frankie's tongue warped around her leg, dragging her towards him as he rose from utop his bitchs back and clambered towards her, steps un even and slightly mismatched from his out of balanced body.

"Awwww shi-" before she could finish she was in the air, arm around his neck and tongue tightening around her mid section making her ribcage flare up in protest, her breathing becoming laboured and un timed as the grip grew tight enough to shatter bones. She would have died, would had joined the ever growing list of the people the smoker had killed, had it not been for Bartholomew and an untimely growl.

Instead of having her ribcage cracked and broken she was instead given a swift bite to the forearm then chucked a few meters out of sight, landing on the cement pathway that waved its way through the once tranquil park, knocking the soon to be wrapped girl out cold, her last thoughts being of the small human boy who, even though she liked vagingle, had seemed rather….cute.


	5. Chapter Four

_Edited. Now without the silly mistakes [hopefully]. Also changed the chapter order slightly._

The Hunter launched himself at the Smoker, knocking him to the ground. He shifted, straddling the others chest, legs clamping down over his arms, pinning them down. Panicking, he wrapped his hands around the other's throat. Digging his claws in, and squeezing as hard as he could.

The Smoker struggled beneath him but with the toe of the Hunters shoe digging into the wrist on his strong arm, the other couldn't get it free. He was able to free his non-tumor ridded arm, though. He gave a few scratches at his face, before grabbing his wrists. Trying to pry them away and restore his airflow.

Still panicked, the Hunter tried to figure out why he was doing this. Hadn't he just spent the last who-knows-how-long stalking him? Watching over him? Curling up beside him as he slept?

This wasn't right, wasn'tright. But he was protecting himself from an attacker, from someone who wanted to bring him harm. It was for the better, really. He could find another to Infect. Or another to play with. His grip tightened and he ignored the coughs and hacks from the other.

"B-Barthol-tholomew."

He froze. That name sounded familiar, but he didn't know why. He needed to know why. OhGod. Why couldn't he remember that name? Why couldn't he remember anything but following the other? Why couldn't he remember himself? He was Bartholomew. Wasn't he?

His body laxed during his mental breakdown, making it easy for the Smoker to flip their position, with the Hunter lying prone on the ground, and him crouched above him. The two tongues that weren't in his mouth shot out, wrapping around the other's wrists and holding them still. He hacked and gasped, simultaneously trying to get more air into his blacked lungs and trying to get that crushing feeling out of his trachea.

Bartholomew didn't even try to fight the other, just let himself be held down, waiting for the other to catch his breath as he pushed all the questions in his mind back. This wasn't the time to freak out. Nope. The others breath was starting to regain normalcy, and Bartholomew grinned.

"What's your name?" Yes, just make small talk as if you hadn't just tried to kill him. Pretend that he hadn't tried to do the same before that human showed up.

A fist landed harshly on Bartholomew's chest, making him gasp and his legs to jerk. The hand pressed harder, and Bartholomew started to panic again, his ribs bowing under the pressure and threatening to fracture. He felt one snap as warm breath washed over his face. He barely caught the words over his own shriek.

"It's Frankie, bitch."

_Bartholomew hated moving. Just fucking hated it. He had to leave all his friends behind just because his father had to relocate for his job. Fucking. Lame. Not only that, but they didn't even move into a neighborhood with kids his age. Only younger and adults. Sure he was as tall as the kids that were his new 'buddies'. But they were four years his junior and still had doubts about girls/i _not_ ihaving cooties._

_School wasn't that bad though. He met some new people who didn't seem to mind that he was so short. Dammithehatedthatword. And the football team was still holding tryouts. Same with the track team. Maybe moving at the beginning of the year wasn't so bad after all._

_Then Bartholomew met him._

_The guy who would come to be his tormentor, his living nightmare, his sleeping nightmare. The wigger boy who thought he was so fucking gangster, despite being a stupid white boy with, what seemed to be, learning disabilities._

_Or, at least, Bartholomew thought so._

_The meeting hadn't started out bad. It was like meeting any one new. Bartholomew accidentally bumped into him in the hallway, causing Bartholomew to drop his books and an open bottle of water. The water bounced off the other's chest, dousing the front of his black hoodie. Bartholomew apologized quickly and even offered to walk with him to the infirmary to get him another shirt._

_But all he got as a reply was a hard stare from the brunet as he pulled off his wet sweater, revealing his bare torso. Bartholomew was ever optimistic though, and simply stuck out his hand, grinning, and introduced himself, stating that he was new._

_A cruel grin pulled across the boy's face now. That's when Bartholomew knew he needed to get away. Just leave the books and get away, but as he stepped back, a hand caught the front of his own hoodie._

"_Where you goin'?" Using the grip he had on the white fabric, the brunet pulled Bartholomew around and slammed him against the lockers. "I thought we were just starting to get along." Hands slid down Bartholomew's sides, and to the hem of the hoodie. That's when the panic set it._

_He struggled to get away, but the taller boy just pressed closer, trapping him. "Oh no, bitch, you're not leaving now. You owe me." The hands pulled up, and despite the little space between them, pulled the hoodie off._

_All Bartholomew could think was that he needed to get away. And get away right away. Because this was not going to end nicely. But, surprisingly, it did, at least compared to what was to come. A door to their right opened up and a teacher called out._

_So, the other just pulled the dry, slightly too small, hoodie on and leaned in close, scowling now. "The name's Frankie, bitch. Remember it."_

_A knee was brought up sharply, catching Bartholomew in the stomach, making him double over and gasp. As he panted, he glanced up to see Frankie grab his own wet hoodie along with Bartholomew's books and walk away. Leaving Bartholomew half naked and, literally, breathless._

Bartholomew screeched again as the pressure worsened, cracking a second rib. Then it was gone, leaving him panting and whining at the pain. He whimpered and struggled against the restraints still holding his wrists down.

"No." Frankie growled from above him. He felt a sudden draft on his stomach, and remembered the fight from before. Frankie must be checking his wounds. That was a nice thing to do. Bartholomew liked that Frankie was worried about him. He liked it a lot.

Bartholomew wanted to hug him. He wanted to hug Frankie, and get hugged back. Surely Frankie wouldn't object to that, he was checking on Bartholomew's wounds after all. But, his arms were pinned down still, and that made it hard to hug the other. He would just have to wait a little bit. Till Frankie released him, then he'd get his hug.

Something warm and slippery slid over his stomach and he screeched, straining to free himself and get whatever it was that was on him, off.

"Thop!"

He stilled at Frankie's hiss, and fell lax again. That was new. Usually when he was told to stop, he kept going. But something about Frankie made him listen. Bartholomew wasn't sure if he liked this or not.

Probably not.

The slithering wet thing kept moving, and after a moment Bartholomew realized what it was. It was Frankie's tongue cleaning his wound. Giddiness washed over him again at the realization. Frankie cared. Hecaredhecaredhecared. He had too, if he was cleaning Bartholomew off.

After a few moments, Frankie sat back, and slowly released Bartholomew. Instantly he jerked up and wrapped his arms around Frankie's neck, catching him off guard and causing him to tip over, landing on top of Bartholomew. But Bartholomew didn't care, he was just excited that he was hugging Frankie. Cause Frankie cared.

The blow to the side of the face was completely unexpected, and it jarred him badly. Enough to make it possible for Frankie to scramble back a few feet away from the smaller Infected.

Bartholomew whined at the loss of contact and clutched the side of his face. He knew that Frankie was still close, but he wasn't close enough.

"NO." Frankie growled out, slapping at Bartholomew's out stretched hand. "None of that! No touching, bitch!" But Bartholomew just whined again and attempted to crawl forward. Frankie stood, kicking him in the side, where his ribs had cracked, and pointed down at the whimpering Hunter. "Fucking touch me again, and I'll kill you."

Bartholomew just gave in, for now, and pulled himself into a crouched position by Frankie's feet. "Okay." He said, tipping his face up so that it would appear like he was looking at the other. "Okay, Frankie." It felt wrong to say him name like that. With affection and longing. It was so wrong, and yet so right.

Frankie scoffed. "Where's my jumper?" It took Bartholomew a moment to remember what Frankie was talking about, but then he perked up, grinning widely.

"It's at the place I sleep." That's right, Bartholomew had found a place to stay when he wasn't following Frankie. It was a house, that much he knew, and it had a couch and a pantry full of water. Which is really all he cared about. It also seemed to be free of other Infected. Which made sense, seeing how Bartholomew had to climb through the chimney to get in and out, due to there being no broken windows or doors.

"I can show you." This was exciting! Bartholomew got the Smoker he turned to come find him, and he was going to show him to his house! Nothing could be better. Except, maybe, not having two fractured ribs and a sliced open stomach. But those would heal up by tomorrow.

Frankie didn't answer at first, and, for the first time since he'd clawed his eyes out, Bartholomew wished he could see his expression, just so he could figure out what he was thinking. But, before Bartholomew could get to worried, Frankie replied with a simple: "Fine."

Bartholomew bounced on his toes a couple times, his grin only getting bigger. "Awesome!" He started clawing on all fours towards where he knew his house was. "You're going to like it!"

Frankie snorted behind him, but followed along.

And that made Bartholomew very happy.


	6. Chapter Five

_Edited. Now without the silly mistakes [hopefully]. Also changed the chapter order slightly._

The house was two-story. That much Bartholomew knew from his nearly everyday scale to the chimney. A climb he was currently making, hoping that Frankie was following. He'd made it to a second window ledge when he heard a click and a creak. Instantly he dropped back to ground level, sniffing cautiously.

Bartholomew sensed an open space before him that hadn't been there before and that Frankie was inside of it. It made him feel uneasy to think that there was a sudden hole in the side of his home. He didn't want Commons just walking in whenever they pleased. 'cause the Commons were gross and smelled bad. Well, worse. But still counts.

"Get in here, bitch." Frankie was speaking to him, he presumed, seeing how he couldn't smell any one else about. "I don't want any of those nasty fuckers in here." Bartholomew crawled forward, slipping through the hole before he felt a slight wind on his side and heard a slam as the hole closed up.

His hackles rose and he flipped around growling at the once-hole. A foot connected with his side a second later and he yelped, falling heavily on his side. "Dumbass, it's a fucking door. Stop fucking growling at it." A shoe nudged his knee as he pushed himself up into a crouched position. "And stand the fuck up. God."

All the mean comments were not something Bartholomew liked. But he somehow knew not to set Frankie off. Not in an enclosed space where he couldn't hide easily, at least. So he simply stood up, unconsciously standing on his toes and hunching over slightly, and followed after Frankie.

It was a meandering walk that Bartholomew grew bored with quickly and ended up dropping back down onto his hands. If Frankie noticed, he didn't say anything, just kept going into every room, opening up a bunch of holes in the walls.

Finally Frankie opened another, but stopped and walked in. With the others he stood on the outside and just looked in, but now he was walking in deeper, making Bartholomew follow reluctantly, sniffing the air cautiously. Smelled relatively clean. Cleaner then the couch he'd been bloodying up the past few days. But it sparked a memory, a cloudy one, but something none-the-less.

Something with him. And Frankie. He couldn't make out the details but it made his stomach tighten and him feel hot. Weirdweirdweird. He wondered what Frankie was thinking about, briefly, before starting to back out of the room, suddenly feeling claustrophobic.

A long wet appendage wrapped around one of his wrists, knocking him off-balance and onto the floor. He could feel Frankie looming over him, and he had a bad feeling about this. "Y-your jumper? You want that, right? It-it's on the couch." He wanted out of this room. Away from Frankie. This felt bad. His chest felt like it was aching, and he knew that if he had tear-ducts he'd be crying. He didn't even know why he would be, but he knew he would.

This situation was too familiar in a way the Bartholomew didn't understand. And that made him even more uneasy. Frankie was pulling him up, onto his feet and pulling him deeper into the room. Panicking, Bartholomew let out a low screech and tried to backpedal away. When he realized that it wasn't working, he clawed out, catching the tongue wrapped around his wrist, slicing it apart.

Frankie growled at this and reached out, grabbing Bartholomew's upper arm with his right hand, and then hauling him around and throwing him.

He expected to hit a wall, or something else equally hard, but instead he landed on something springy and soft. Bartholomew didn't have time to enjoy it before Frankie crawled on after him. _A bed_. He thought suddenly, realized that's what he was on. What Frankie had put him on. What they were currently on together.

"Frank-" A hand covered his mouth and Frankie's breath was suddenly on his face. "Shut up." Bartholomew snapped and brought both hands up, clawing at any part of Frankie he could reach. He could feel the blood pouring from the wounds and onto him, soaking his already filthy hoddie.

Frankie gave a harsh cry, sat up and slammed his right arm down on Bartholomew's chest. Yelping very much like a dog would, Bartholomew's body fell limp and he gasped desperately for breath. The impact broke the two ribs that had already been on the mend, one pressing itself to his lungs, nearly puncturing it.

Whimpering, Bartholomew stayed still as Frankie's hands searched his body. He felt fingernails run over the tape that bound his hoodie tight to his body. Frankie growled irately, and started ripping at it, pulling it off of Bartholomew before going for the hoodie itself. Bartholomew didn't fight him as he pulled it over his head, casting it to the side. He didn't so much fear for the punishment if he fought back, so much to deep seeded fear that Frankie would leave him if he did.

After spending so much time trying to get Frankie too him, he didn't want to throw it all away just because he was uncomfortable. No. He'd suck it up. For Frankie. At least for a little bit.

Frankie was touching him again, feeling of his chest, and though Bartholomew couldn't see it, he knew that Frankie had a disappointed look on his face. As if Bartholomew had somehow lied to him by luring him here, but not having when Frankie wanted. Even if Frankie didn't know what it was he was looking for. His fingers bent and his nails bit into Bartholomew's skin, raking down to his heavily scarred stomach, leaving in their wake raised red lines.

Bartholomew flinched and squirmed, trying to make himself feel better. He was restless and it was getting hot and all he wanted was to get away. But he couldn't. Just couldn't. He'd decided to do as Frankie wanted. So he couldn't go away. Frankie wouldn't want that. And Bartholomew didn't want anything Frankie didn't want. Shifting, Frankie pressed his hips to Bartholomew's.

Bartholomew let out another yelp, and couldn't stop himself from trying to crawl away. Turning away from Frankie, and digging his nails into the bed, trying to pull himself. But his upper body strength wasn't enough, not with the dead weight of Frankie on him. Making it rather easy for Frankie to reach over his head and hold his hands down against the mattress.

And the fact that Frankie was pressing against this back now didn't seem to deter him from his task. In fact, he chuckled and pressed harder against Bartholomew. "That makes things easier." With a wet plop, one of his tongues landed on the middle of Bartholomew's back.

"GETITOFFGETITOFFGETITOFF." Bartholomew's voice was rising obnoxiously, as he struggled; trying to find some sort of footing, or leverage that he could use to get away with. Frankie wasn't letting up though, the tongue coiling around his waist, and over the scars on Bartholomew's stomach.

As Bartholomew let out a screech, there was a loud explosion outside, drowning him out. Frankie lost his focus, allowing for Bartholomew to wiggle until he was on his side, a foot pressed against Frankie's hip. He kicked out, throwing the other back and into the opposite wall. Then he sprang from the bed and out the door, botching his landing a bit, his shoulder ramming into the doorframe.

Scrambling, he leapt down the stairs and made for the chimney. Frankie wasn't far behind, screaming and cursing. But his shot at trying to grab Bartholomew missed, and he was left alone in the house as the Hunter climbed up the chimney and outside. He was a bit shook up from the mad dash away, but the second he reached open air he could smell the humans.

He stood on top of the chimney, for once choosing to be on two legs, and sniffed. At least two, but the scent of smoke and fire was too strong to tell exactly. He dropped down and crawled to the edge, already forgetting about what had happened. There was a human just under the ledge where he sat. Another was twenty feet [give or take] away, being attacked by a horde of Commons.

"Healing!" It was a woman below him. And she had something sterile smelling with her. From experience, Bartholomew knew those were the ones to attack, given the chance. So he did, even with the risk of the other human not too far away. With a sharp echoing cry, he dropped on her, knocking away not only her medical supply but her pistol as well.

As he sunk his claws into her chest, he had a sudden realization that _that_ was what Frankie had been feeling for. Those weird soft mounds on a females' chest. He frowned, claws only raked halfway down her torso. Why would Frankie think he had some? Couldn't Frankie see he was a guy? Guys don't have soft chests.

The women beneath him was screaming for help and grabbing at his bare arms, trying to get him off. But he wasn't moving and he turned his face towards hers, making it look like he was looking her in the face. "Why's your chest better than mine?"

"The Hell?" The women momentarily faltered, but Bartholomew caught the scent of the other human behind him, the click of a gun being cocked resounding in his ears. With a snarl he gave another tear at her, slicing all the way down her stomach, intestines spilling beneath his fingers.

As the gun went off, Bartholomew could scent a Smoker near by. Frankie? Where the hole he had opened earlier had been. The bullet caught him in the shoulder and he spun off the women, landing face first in the blood soaked dirt. His resulting scream was weak as spasms of pain wracked through his body.

He heard a faint yell as he writhed on the ground, gripping his shoulder. He whimpered, and called out. "F-Frankie!" But no one was coming for him. All he had was the woman next to him, but she was nearly dead now. He let out a sob, clawed out, and caught the woman's arm, dragging her to him.

"They can talk. Theycanfuckingtalk." Bartholomew could smell the fear practically radiating from her. But he didn't care. She had got him shot. And that wasn't nice. Not nice at all. So he leaned over, taking hold of her jugular, and bit, easily slicing through the tendons and muscle with his teeth. He pulled the flesh away, ignoring her dying gurgles.

Eating always helped him heal faster, he had noticed. So he was happy to just chow down on the woman, regain his strength. But something hit his side knocking him over and onto his wounded shoulder. He shrieked, and tried to attack out, but his arm was too weak, and the other was clamped over the hole, trying to stop the bleeding.

Rough hands hauled him up, and shook him. "YOU STUPID FUCK." Frankie's voice. That was Frankie's voice. "GOT YOURSELF FUCKING SHOT." Frankie had saved him. Frankie had saved him, _again_. "IF NOT FOR ME, IT WOULDA BEEN IN THE HEAD, YOU FUCKING TWAT."

Frankie did care. He did. Hereallydid. Bartholomew just knew it now. And that made him happy. So damn happy. He grinned stupidly, even as he was dragged through the hole and thrown against a wall. "Like nearly getting killed? Do ya, bitch?" He shook his head, but couldn't stop grinning. "Fucking looks like you do. Stop fucking smiling like that." Frankie continued to curse under his breath as his fingers dug into Bartholomew's bullet wound, extracting the piece of lead so that he would heal faster.

Bartholomew moved forward, hands grabbing for Frankie, but Frankie held him back. "Fuck you, you little bitch. Wouldn't let me touch you earlier. What makes you fucking think you can touch me now?"

"B-but." Bartholomew strained against Frankie, trying to get closer. "You didn't care enough before. Now you do. Now I- I wanna touch you." The hot feeling was overcoming Bartholomew again, stemming from where Frankie's palm was pressed against his bare chest. But it didn't scare him like before. He actually liked it. He wanted it more. And he knew that Frankie could make that happen. "Come on." He whined, fingers clutching at Frankie's arm, feeling over the lumps and tumors that covered it.

Frankie faltered, like he didn't know what to make of Bartholomew's sudden change of attitude, but he didn't need to be told twice, and pushed Bartholomew back against the wall, quickly pressing against him. This situation felt too familiar, but at the same time so strange. Frankie moved his hand from Bartholomew's chest around to his back, his other hand joining it as it slid into the back pockets of Bartholomew's pants.

Bartholomew let out a small noise in protest, but didn't make to get away. As he was lifted, he reached out to hold onto Frankie's shoulders, legs wrapping around his waist. He started to lean towards Frankie, but was caught off-guard as Frankie rutted against him.

Gasping at the unfamiliar heat coiling in his lower stomach, Bartholomew scratched at Frankie's back. He was hitched up higher, making the bulge in Frankie's pants, very apparent. Bartholomew's chest seized up and he dug his claws deeper into Frankie's shoulder blades.

This was weird. And Bartholomew didn't really understand what was going on. And that only made him nervous. Maybe he shouldn't let Frankie do this. Maybe he should get away. Frankie moved against him. Or maybe he should stay. It felt good, in an unfamiliar, kind of scary kind of way. Even if he was having trouble breathing. And his pants felt much too tight. And the room only kept getting hotter.

It was just a moment before Bartholomew was gasping, his legs rubbing against either side of Frankie's waist as he came. He only clutched Frankie harder though, his face buried in his shoulder. Frankie was still thrusting against Bartholomew, either not noticing that Bartholomew was finished or not caring.

Just a few more minutes before Frankie came to a shuddering halt, Bartholomew still clutching him helplessly. He tried to pry the Hunter off him, but it didn't work, he continued to cling to him like a leech. "Get off, bitch. 'm done." Bartholomew simply flexed his fingers, gouging deeper into the skin. "GET. OFF." A tongue slid out and around Bartholomew's throat.

Bartholomew instantly let go, falling in a heap on the floor. "GETITOFF." He screeched, clawing at the wet muscle. It was retracted before he could do serious harm. "Ihateit." He muttered, bringing up his knees to his chest. It was weird. He felt dirty. Which seemed silly because of course he was dirty. He was covered in grime and guts and who knew what else. But somehow, what he and Frankie had just done made him really feel _dirty_.

And it took him a few second to realize that Frankie was walking away. He hesitated, not sure if he should follow or not. He didn't like feeling like this. But he knew he liked Frankie. So maybe it was just a temporary feeling. Maybe the dirtiness would pass. Then it would all be okay. And Frankie would let him touch him in other ways. Less. . . Dirty-feeling ways.

Frankie stopped just as he was about to exit the hole he'd reopened. "Bitch, you coming or not? The ugly fucks ain't eaten our kills yet. Get yer ass over here."

Bartholomew didn't need to be told twice either.


	7. Chapter Six End

_Edited. Now without the silly mistakes [hopefully]. Also changed the chapter order slightly._

Frankie bent over the corpse of the woman and smirked down at her dead body. "You did this?" he asked, pointing to her torn chest and the large chunk of missing jugular. "Heh sick fuck" he sad before sitting down beside the body and bending down onto all fours, in a very 'Bartholomew-ish' style before he bit down on her arm and started to rip away chunks. He didn't give a fuck if he looked like a dog like this. He didn't want to bring the rotten corpse into the house and if he stood up and ate her then he'd be a larger target to get shot at, like this he was safer.

His teeth weren't sharp and shark styled like many of the other infected, he just had normal 'human' teeth, so his method of eating was slightly different. He bit down, then placed his hands on the woman's arm either side of his mouth, and then yanked his head back, pulling away a strip of flesh which he chewed up and swallowed down, repeating the process again a lot easier now that he'd 'opened her up' and exposed to softer flesh beneath the skin. After a few minutes of eating he looked over at Bartholomew who was crouched down a few meters away looking….well, Frankie didn't know how to describe it but how ever he was looking it was pissing him off. "If you don't come over and fucking eat this shit I'll ram it down your throat" he snapped, having no idea why he wanted Bartholomew to eat, because hell it didn't effect him, but just needing the hunter to do something other then sit there and look like THAT.  
Bartholomew didn't seem to hear him at first, but then he smiled and crawled over beside Frankie, bending down and easily tearing off sizable chunk of the woman's thigh.

Frankie watched for a few seconds then bit down again, looking at his own tiny mouthful and then at Bartholomew's rather large one, swallowing his own and then uncurling the tongue from his shoulder, running the appendage down over Bartholomew's cheek making him squeal and open wide, the chunk of meat dropping from his mouth where Frankie picked it up and swallowed it, withdrawing the tongue and smirking. "….You know if you want I can bite you bits to eat?" Bartholomew asked after realizing his food had gone into Frankie's gut. Frankie just scoffed and punched Bartholomew in the arm. "You think I'm a retard? I can eat on my own without your faggot ass helping me" he said, instantly becoming hostile again as he started to drag the body away from Bartholomew, eating on his own by the other side of the road leaving Bartholomew sitting there corpse-less.

The hunter squirmed a little, still feeling all dirty and…weird. He didn't like this feeling and he was hoping it would pass very quickly so he could feel happy again instead of how he did now. Now he felt gross and bad and upset in a weird way, getting the strangest sense that this had happened before. He waited until Frankie was eating again before he started to crawl closer, and a little bit closer, and then closer still until he was beside Frankie again and the smoker had stopped eating and was instead looking at him.

Frankie opened his mouth to say something but then just shut it and bent back down to eat some more, making no move to stop Bartholomew as he bent down beside him, taking smaller bites now to match Frankies, and ate alongside the other infected until the woman was nothing more then bits of bone and a puddle of blood.

"…Its dark. Get back in the house or a witch will come and cut you up" Frankie said, eventually getting to his feet, his knee's making a rather sick cracking sound since he'd been on all fours for so long before he stretched his arms above his head and yawned, rubbing blood from around his mouth. Bartholomew stayed on all fours but walked a little closer to Frankie's side, tilting his head up to seem like he was looking at him, and then hugging his leg. "Thank-you for finding me" he said, voice muffled by Frankie's baggy jeans which Bartholomew was currently pulling down even further. Frankie just growled and shook his leg, but oddly enough didn't punch the hunter per usual, and instead just scraped him off by lifting his leg up and pushing down on his head with both hands until Bartholomew dislodged, still smiling like a little creeper, but feeling a little bit less icky then usual.

The two went back inside the house and Frankie sealed up the holes in the wall before he went upstairs, making no effort to pull Bartholomew along, but also not stopping him as Bartholomew followed along side. He kicked his trainers off, the ratty things practically falling apart at the seems but somehow managing to stay stuck together, before he yanked down his jeans with little effort and put them down near the side of the room away from the bed so he wouldn't tred on them. The sides of the jeans held two record disks from when he wasn't infected and had worked as a DJ for the very club he'd been bitten outside of. The disks themselves weren't important (two records with random dance tracks on) but he was incredibly protective over them, having killed a common infected by bashing his face against a chain link fence until his body had turned to looking like something pushed through a cheese grinder simply because the man had scratched a single disk.

Frankie crawled under the covers and then something rather amazing happened. He smiled. Not a smirk or a sneer, an actual **smile**. Bartholomew was still stood in the doorway but when he sensed the change in Frankies attitude he dared to crawl in, climbing up onto the bed and oh so carefully pulling the covers back and crawling in along side Frankie. The smoker quickly let him know his place when he tried to hug him around the waist, earning a sharp jab in the rips, but at least he didn't get pushed out of the bed which felt a hell of a lot nicer then the couch downstairs. "Take your shit off" Frankie said after a few minutes. Bartholomew felt his insides tighten again and the dirty feeling was starting to come back so when frankie started to pull his top off he quickly dug his claws into the smokers palms making him hiss and pull back. "Oi! Faggot, I'm helping you, sit the fuck down and don't move. I'm not going to do anything queer" he explained, making Bartholomew feel a lot happier now, actually letting frankie touch him this time.

The tape around his clothing was ripped off and then Frankie yanked his hoodie off over his head, leaving his runners for Bartholomew to do because hell, those things looked pretty skanky from all the time Bartholomew spent sitting on his ass or on the side of buildings and Frankie didn't want to touch them. Bartholomew pulled them off as well, and his pile of clothes and tape was pushed out the side of the bed onto the floor before Frankie rolled over onto his side and shut his eyes, using his foot to push Bartholomew backwards when the tried to shuffle closer once more.

It must have been because Bartholomew had a better sense of hearing but he found it harder to fall asleep then Frankie who was sprawled out beside him snoring lightly. He could hear the rain on the roof of the house and could hear the common infect walking about outside, eating up the bits of corpse they'd left over. He snuggled closer to Frankie (in his sleep the smoker couldn't push him away, only roll over and squirm a lot) untill something caught him off guard. He scented something new, a type of infected that seemed different then the tanks and the witchs he'd come into contact with, and stranger still was that it was very VERY close.  
He waited, feeling himself getting protective over Frankie, wanting to keep him safe from this _thing_ incase it was a threat before he crawled out of the nice safe warm bed and went over to the window where the scent was the strongest. He couldn't see the eyes watching him on the other side of the glass, or the twitching and the god awful smile that only seemed to get even more inhumanly wide the closer got, he could only scent the mix of blood and dead things and…..blue berries.

Bartholomew stood by the window, eye sockets twitching as out of habit he tried to 'look' only to realize it was impossible, and then slowly raised his hand to the cold glass, putting his palm against it, gradually feeling the area warm as something on the other side repeated to action, palm against glass, long fingers splayed exactly the same as Bartholomew's, making it seem as if they were touching each other. Bartholomew stayed like that for what seemed like hours when in reality mere minutes had passed until a bolt of lightning lit up the night sky and the noise vibrated the house, waking frankie from his slumber causing him to spazz out for a second, looking around bleery eyed, thinking for a few post sleep moments that he saw Bartholomew standing with someone in the window until the lightning passed and when he rubbed his eyes all he saw was Bartholomew standing there, looking down at his hand with a small frown on his face. "Get away from the window idiot, if the commons see you they'll all want to come in" the smoker said, still not fully woken as he pulled the covers back and allowed Bartholomew back in, feeling the Hunter curl up beside him pressing his small body against his own lanky figure, the two of them fitting together rather well even though in the morning Frankie would probably beat the crap out of Bartholomew for 'sleeping like a faggot', pressed up against him in the nice warm bed, the two of them in the darkness looking almost like normal people while they slumbered, Bartholomew's icky feeling having gone and past, leaving in its wake something a lot more tolerable.


End file.
